


just a little rush, babe

by fensandmarshes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Aka me, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, M/M, but like murdery fluff, no beta we die like idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fensandmarshes/pseuds/fensandmarshes
Summary: If. If.Ifthis pretty, messy guy with a face full of stubble and a godawful moustache turns out to be Wade’s conspicuously absent partner in not-exactly-crime (but-getting-there), Wade might have to stab him a couple times over. Or be stabbed - he’s not particularly picky. Either works becauseoh fuckhe’s just atadgorgeous and Wade isthis(his fingers mime an itsy-bitsy distance, held appraisingly in the direction of the guy’s moustache) close to swooning. Or knocking him out and taking the key.Or: if no one else is going to write Wade/Marc fic then I fucking will, ft. "private security au" and the fact that my working title was "wade and marc: idiots in love"
Relationships: Marc Spector/Wade Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: Marvel Fluff Bingo





	just a little rush, babe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damwords/gifts).



> \- you're WELCOME dam you loser  
> \- I got told this was a small fandom but there are 60 fics??? lmao  
> \- for the [Marvel Fluff Bingo](marvelfluffbingo.tumblr.com) square **private security AU**. honestly I'm not sure how au-y things are here and I don't really care any more  
> \- title from "Sedated" by Hozier who is just a gOLDMINE for ficcable song lyrics

Let’s set the scene - Wade’s alone in the rain, waiting for a piece-of-shit partner-to-be who just  _ won’t turn up  _ and growing rapidly colder by the instant. His burrito is sheltered protectively in the crook of his elbow, still foil-wrapped but leaking sauce onto Wade’s suit in a colour that’ll  _ definitely  _ fucking stain. Unless the rain washes it out/off first. Wade’s beginning to realise he probably shoulda invested in a waterproof suit, or at least an iteration of one - preferably located in a convenient customization tab in the corner of the HUD, a la the PS4 Spider-Man game that Wade has never actually played - because he’s soaked through, the damp irritating his skin something awful. And sure, he’s ex-special forces with a list of qualifications taller than he is. (Six foot two, losers - SUCK it.) Okay, so he might be very well incapable of catching pneumonia or Coronavirus - you totally get that from being cold, right? ‘Cold’ and ‘flu’ are synonymous, RIGHT? - or any disease at all other than  _ mother. Fucking. Cancer _ . But none of those things mean he has ANY obligation at all to like the fucking cold.

So. He shivers sullenly, like a wet rat. 

But.

Ohoh.

It gets! Worse!

Wade wouldn’t be here,  _ sodden  _ outside a concrete-and-steel wall that looks straight out of the dystopian, Trumpy future this universe just barely managed to avoid, if it weren’t for the client - greasy Alan Rickman-looking fuck -  _ insisting  _ that apparently it’s not enough for one (1) merc to take the job. Not even a proper fucking  _ job _ , bodyguard work - but alas, here they are. Picking up the scraps. Thanks for nothing, fucking  _ Jack Hammer _ . (Wade’ll never get over the name. He can just picture a pot-bellied comic writer, circa 1990 or some shit, trying to finish a script in his garage and realising oh shit, we don’t have an actual name for Weaze! What could we -  _ ooooh _ , I’ve got a jackhammer in the corner, let’s just use that and then I can get back to beating my wife!) Mr. Severe Snorp (speaking of names, it’s one of the more amusing pseudonyms Wade’s come across in his time, and this is the world that unironically created Goldballs and the Penetrator) seems to think that despite Wade’s  _ glowing  _ recommendations from previous clients (the ones that praise him on his  _ pragmatic decision making _ and  _ strategies so elaborate they almost seem spontaneous _ ), he’s unqualified to protect ONE measly suit alone. ONE.  _ One.  _ Wade pictures The Judge from The Good Place -  _ lot _ of capitalised articles in that show - and chuckles darkly into his burrito.

Fucking Sivir Snoop. Who’s he to judge Wade’s  _ erratic past  _ and  _ perceived lack of accountability _ ? What’s canon is canon. Don’t go casting your  _ opinions  _ back through it like a certain unnamed  _ great champion of queer representation _ , sir. 

(“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor.  _ Ha. _ )

A car whisks by, close enough for Wade to reach out and touch if he feels the need - straight through a puddle and splattering Wade with a slew of road slush. He shouts something elided and profane after it. He’s still seething, too irritated to bother remembering exactly which country he’s in - or possibly he doesn’t feel like stating it for the record when he knows full well the author’s going to just forget all over again - but wherever he is, it’s been raining for hours and his pArTnEr still hasn’t shown up.

His partner. You know, the one with the  _ key _ ? So that Wade can get through the thirty-foot concrete wall and in to meet the douche he’s supposed to be protecting? 

He spots another car - a squat yellow taxi - on the approach and, disgruntled, presses his back further against the wall in an effort to get as far from the street as he can. The puddle’s positioned  _ just  _ right for the slush to catch him in the mask. He considers stabbing the driver, but decides against it.

Then the car slows to a halt right in front of Wade and he seriously revisits the notion. One of his hands drifts to its corresponding sword. 

If. If _. If  _ this pretty, messy taxi driver with a face full of stubble and a godawful moustache turns out to be Wade’s conspicuously absent partner in not-exactly-crime (but-getting-there), Wade might have to stab him a couple times over. Or be stabbed - he’s not particularly picky. Either works because  _ oh fuck  _ he’s just a  _ tad  _ gorgeous and Wade is  _ this  _ (his fingers mime an itsy-bitsy distance, held appraisingly in the direction of the guy’s moustache) close to swooning. Or knocking him out and taking the key. 

“Yo. Robert De Niro,” Wade calls, batting his eyelids against the rain-saturated fabric of his mask. “Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

The guy looks him up and down appraisingly. Wade bobs a curtsey,  _ just  _ so. “Subtle,” he grumbles. Ohoh  _ nice  _ voice too, scratchy in all the right-wrong ways - Wade wants to swallow it. “It’s a knife.”

“And here I thought you were just admiring my ravishing good looks,” Wade purrs. “Nothing wrong with being a li’l appreciative. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

The eye-roll is  _ spectacular.  _ “Shut up. You Deadpool?”

“Might be,” Wade says, as if he’s not wearing one of the most recognisable costumes from wherever here is to the moon. (Or not. This is 616. Scratch that - he’s probably not even in the top ten, let’s be real here.) “You, uh.” He scratches his head, the name eluding him. “Spector?”

“My name’s Jake,” the pretty guy says. “You’ll heal right up if I stab you?”

“You can  _ stab  _ me any time.”

“Move outta the fucking way,”  _ Jake  _ growls, elbowing Wade aside from where he’s sprawled over the doorway and stabbing a nondescript key in the general direction of the lock. His hands are rough and raw, reddened at some of the knuckles. Coordination doesn’t seem great. Maybe he’s just pissed. Wade tends to be very skilled at eliciting that particular reaction from people.

Especially  _ partners.  _ Business or otherwise.

The door - a mechanical behemoth, steely grey - creaks open in a grumble of metal, and Wade shoves the rest of his burrito into his mouth before following his new best friend into (large space, maybe thirty by twenty feet, courtyard walled on all sides, no significant obstacles or assets) an ugly-ass courtyard, more concrete with a touch of metal to spice things up. “How do you feel about nicknames?” he coos into Jake’s ear. “Given we’re to be partners in all things? What’s your last name - Spector? Oooo, we could hyphenate.”

Jake probably-Spector doesn’t even look around. “You’re a dick.”

Wade heaves a put-upon sigh. “Shockingly, I’ve been told this before. I’ll even admit it - I can be, at times, perhaps, possibly, just a little -”

Jake punches him. Right in the jaw. Breaks something, too - Wade hears the crack with a thrill of adrenaline. Shaking his head, he fights a giddy grin.

“Now  _ that  _ woke me up,” he purrs. “Because I have been STANDING IN THE FUCKING RAIN FOR AN HOUR.”

“Whatever,” Jake says, nonplussed. “Client’s this way.”

“OH. Lily Evans’ creepy-as-fuck secret admirer,” Wade snorts. “Only it’s, like, Looly Vans. Not gonna lie, I forgot about him for a minute.”

“You’re horrible at this,” Jake tells him coldly.

“And yet somehow I’m the best at what I do,” Wade whispers, too smug, and frames his face - cutesy - with his burrito-stained hands.

Savant Snorfle even looks the part, movie-esque but not. Wade considers, briefly, if there’s any particular reason he bears such a resemblance to a certain pop-culture figure (in the way Matt Damon resembles Tom Hiddleston in that one Ragnarok cameo, let’s be real here), before deciding it’s probably ‘cause this author is  _ godawful  _ lazy and couldn’t be bothered characterising its Macguffin beyond an overplayed joke. He levels an unimpressed (and unimpressive) glare in the general direction of the door, where Wade’s standing with the majority of his body obscuring Snarpie’s view of The Shitty Partner. “You’re late.”

“Try getting more cliche,” Wade suggests. “It’d be tough, but I think you could do it! Can I get a family feud in here? Or no, I got this - you stole the Mona Lisa!”

Jake shoulders his way into the room - he’s lost? The moustache? Maybe it was one of those weird stick-on things. Ooo, maybe he was  _ incognito. _ Wearing. A fake moustache. 

You’re doing great, honey. 

(You’re doing a terrible job, but we’re very nice. And we support you.)

Jake-Man (because we gotta get him a superhero alias and he’s not providing!) is much prettier without the moustache, anyway. Looks tired, but then again - don’t we all? “I’m here … now,” he says haltingly, eyes darting; Wade files that tidbit away for later, a little bemused, and focuses as much as he can be bothered. 

“Snoot snort,” says Snoofle Snortus. Or something like that, probably. Maybe Wade isn’t focusing as much as he thinks he is.

“Moon sounds billionaire noises,” says Wade’s partner, still with a touch of hesitance. “Other on-brand Moon Knight things. Serious inquiries about the job.”

“Stabby shooty noises!” Wade offers, contributing a valuable counterpoint to the discussion. 

He gets two dirty looks for his troubles. 

Okay. Be like that, then.

“Don’t worry,” the newly moustache-less Jake tells the client seriously. Too seriously. Hmm, more comfortable now, though - what’s shifted, that he feels more confident? “I’ll keep her safe.”

“There’s a  _ her  _ involved?” Wade says, like an idiot.

Death glare from Jake. “Were you not listening at  _ all. _ ”

“Nuh-uh,” Wade sing-songs happily. “You’ll just have to fill me in, Jakey!”

“I’m not filling you in on  _ shit, _ ” he snarls. “Also, not Jake.”

Wade pauses. “What?”

“Let’s  _ go _ ,” possibly-not-Jake? says coldly, throwing his elbow around Wade’s neck in something just shy of a chokehold but not-so-distantly related to one. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know,” Wade says, and makes kissy noises at his cheek.

Turns out there’s masks involved, which automatically ramps any and all sexual tension up to about eleven. And oh  _ fuck _ , Wade could just about get on his knees and offer up prayers to the universe, and he’s hardly the pious type - this guy’s got weapons. Throwing darts, nunchucks, truncheons, oh my! 

Wade’s still wanting when it comes to a straight answer about “not Jake”. Hopefully, that signifies a lack of straightness in general? He hasn’t gotten a straight answer about that either. Disappointingly, he also hasn’t gotten a queer one. Ugh. The pretty ones are always the most confusing.

“Can I borrow a moon knife bladey thing  _ please, _ ” Wade begs for what an outside observer would consider ‘the umpteenth time’ but what Wade actually knows to be ‘the charm’, as in ‘umpteenth time’s the’. “I’ll clean it afterwards, I’ll do whatever you want, I just wanna -”

“Don’t try and make innuendos,” not-Jake says gruffly. “We both know you just want to stab someone with it.”

Wade frowns. “That’s an innuendo.”

“No it’s -” 

Not-Jake’s face crumples, hilariously expressive. It’s  _ adorable. _ He’s so  _ upset.  _ Wade wants to sweep him off his feet and cup his precious face in his hands. “You’re, like, the  _ definition  _ of cute,” Wade says contemplatively, and ducks the answering punch with practiced ease. “Hey, don’t be mean. That was a compliment.”

“Harassment isn’t funny. Fuck off.”

“Oh.” Wade pauses. “True.”

“Get your shit,” not-Jake says - and so  _ sue  _ Wade, maybe he has a thing for dirty mouths. “We’re leaving.”

“‘Get in, loser, we’re going murdering?’” Wade quotes hopefully.

Not-Jake meets his mask with a deadpan stare, and turns in a swoosh of  _ utterly ridiculous  _ cape. Then - a pause. 

“My name’s Marc,” he says quietly, almost apologetic. “And, uh, thanks.”

“For what?”

“You said I’m cute.”

Wade lets out a squeal at unholy pitches. 


End file.
